


The Most Dangerous Thing to Dream

by Ishti



Category: Aveyond
Genre: Backstory, Bloodlust, Canon Compliant, F/F, Porn With Plot, Pre-Canon, Rhenegade Compliant, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-01-01 02:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18327131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishti/pseuds/Ishti
Summary: How the vampire got her fangs.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THIS WAS PUBLISHED ON HALLOWEEN; DON'T BELIEVE THE DATESTAMP

 

_“Once upon a time,_

_There was a maiden_

_Exquisite of face and charm,_

_Beloved and adored by all who met her._

_But no man could woo the lady._

_A curse was laid upon her_

_By a scorned warlock_

_That each nagging insecurity_

_Would become dreadful reality,_

_Each clawing fear_

_Would come to club down her door,_

_Each of the world’s dangers_

_Would consume her_

_Like kindling in a pyre._

_So the lady said,_

_‘Nay,_

_I think not._

_The solution,_

_Simple,_

_You have written here_

_In my very blood._

_I shall shed my insecurities._

_I shall do away with all fear._

_And I shall become_

_The most dangerous thing to dream_

_In this Hell or the next.’”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mention Te'ijal's age somewhere in this chapter, but just to lay it out, this takes place around 100 years prior to Rhen's Quest.

A moonless sky, set with a broad chandelier of crystalline stars, arched above the Wildwoods one serene and unthreatening night. The evergreen boughs set about them like ladies' skirts in a vast ballroom, swishing and twirling in tantalizing green spirals with the wind. Few creatures stirred to impede their arboreal dance, the uncanny hush a new moon ritual known to all who made nests in the forest. Few creatures stirred, for they knew tonight, the vampires hunted.

With a burst of speed, Te'ijal dashed through a bare clearing. The wind pressed in around her, no longer a zephyr but a tidal wave rushing against her skin, her cheeks, her ears. She slid to a sudden halt at the other side of the clearing, snapping about on her toes. Te’ijal reveled in her supernatural speed and reflexes, but at this moment--beyond those little things--she loved the  _ wind, _ a blessing unlike any she could enjoy in the still, sealed caves of Halloween Hills.

"Gyendal!" she hissed through her razor grin. "Hurry up!"

Her brother's firefly-bright eyes rolled in the undergrowth across the clearing, neither hair nor limb of his body visible in the swallowing dark. In a snap, he was crouched beside her. Their matching braids, each framing a high cheekbone and one shell-sharp ear, swayed in the displaced air.

"You are the one who dawdles, sister," he chided, affectionate but stern. "While the humans sleep, you burn starlight smelling the nightshade."

Te'ijal skipped ahead of her twin, running her fingertips along the coarse trunks of the trees. "Did you know that the humans  _ eat _ nightshade? The roots and the juicy fruits, even with the seeds! They call them  _ pomatoes." _

"You should focus less on stealing books and more on draining necks. Blood is our essence. Do you remember what happened to Drusilla?"

Te'ijal sighed. "Shrivelled like a desiccated insect. Yes."

She slowed, and Gyendal rubbed her shoulder. "Then we agree. You must prioritize your health, sister. Perhaps you will even bring home a thrall one of these days, eh?"

Te'ijal pushed his hand off with an annoyed sniff. "Gyendal."

He smirked, a fleeting swell of his lip gone as quickly as it arrived, and without so much as a "let's go," the twins bounded ahead through the Wildwoods, leaving bootprints as light as raindrops in the new growth of spring.

They ran west by northwest, avoiding the cabins of the east and the cliffs of the north. The vampires each had their own rotating territories, and those parts of the Land of the Living were bled out, their inhabitants dry and far too aware of the local vampiric dominion. No one had hunted west in a few years, and a scout reported new human construction near the coast several months ago. The active hunters drew straws for the privileged territory, and Te'ijal had won.

The soil grew denser, sandier beneath their feet, heralding their approach to the shore. Te’ijal liked the shore, but she was a little afraid of the ocean--the “edge of the world”, she called it privately, at least since Bartholomew started making fun of her for calling it so publicly. Of her books and trinkets, many came from beyond the sea, but how could she believe these lands of  _ “Veld” _ and  _ “Sudona” _ existed if everything beyond the scraggly beaches was hidden by an endless span of water?

Thinning trees allowed more starlight to tickle Te’ijal’s cheeks. She wondered whether the stars were like little suns if you got close enough, and if so, she thought, what a boon it was to live and hunt beneath not one, but millions. She closed her eyes for a second and smiled in the glow. Gyendal tugged her along.

“Light-loving leech.”

He was narrowing and shading his eyes beneath the last few coniferous holdouts as she bounded out into the open breeze. She drank it in, feeling the crisp, dry air on her tongue, letting it soak into her every sense. With a cock of her head, she gestured sharply for Gyendal to hurry up.

“I smell humans. North.”

The twins stuck to the low, shadowy growth and scattered boulders as they advanced a mile upshore, their pace a bit slower now that the risk of surveillance was greater. Neither whispered a word to the other, barely even gesturing, their movements in perfect synchronicity as they stalked their prey. As the light to the north grew warmer, Te’ijal knew they’d struck the vein. Gyendal’s hand brushed his ear, his eyebrow twitching upward as he glanced her way--he could hear them.

They followed the shoreline as it rose into a crumbling cliff, the waves lapping patiently at the sand many feet below. Soon, Te’ijal could hear it, too--the sounds of an assemblage of socialites enjoying a late-evening soiree at some unsuspecting seaside manor. There it was; one new construction, as the scouts had promised, its outdoor lanterns alight with merry flame, at least a dozen heads chatting, laughing, eating petit fours.

Gyendal blinked at her, saying,  _ perfect. _

Te’ijal grinned.

Quickly, she ran through the rules in her head.  _ Stay out of the light. Do not be seen. If you are seen, do not be seen by more than one human. If you are seen by more than one human, feign human. Protect your partner at all costs. _

The rich-looking humans, they would leave, but the low servants--the kitchen maids, the hall boys, even a coachman or gardener if the twins felt lucky--those were disposable to households like these, at least for the first several months. Gyendal believed that coachmen were easiest to snag on the first night, sneaking away from their carriages to drink or smoke in the woods, leaving comically apparent trails behind them. They knew better than to touch a cook or a butler at this stage; and the gentry themselves, not unless a prime opportunity was presented… not yet.

Tonight, Te’ijal kept Gyendal by her side as she scanned the south side of the garden for weak points, each exploiting their own talent as they crouched forward and the low stone wall rose above their line of sight. She felt Gyendal's hand on her knee, his finger tapping--eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen slow taps, then seventeen-eighteen-nineteen-twenty much quicker; guests and servants. Te'ijal smelled alcohol… wine, but only white, and not of the Eastern Isle. No liquor, no coffee. A casual gathering, but one whose patrons were foreign, or at least extraordinarily wealthy. She heard the giggling of young women, the guffaws of older gentlemen, the puppy-dog whine of a violin. Gyendal traced the sonar outline of the house in her palm.

_ No cellar. _ Te'ijal frowned. She had seen, she was sure--and, well, she'd  _ wanted _ there to be a cellar. There was nothing like a cellar heist (when you could trick the scullery maid into letting you in the first time), and she hadn't had one in a few months. Without realizing, her shoulders slowly lifted, her neck stretching up so her forehead poked over the top of the stone fence.

Gyendal grabbed her by her braid and yanked her down, the lick of hair atop her head falling back down out of sight. Glaring at her furiously, he gestured to keep down. She cringed.

_ What are you thinking?!  _ he mouthed.

Te'ijal hesitated, then she pantomimed hoisting a barrel, but Gyendal only shook his head in bafflement. She tried imitating a scullery maid taking a swig of wine. He squinted and gestured at the party, his lips pursed;  _ are you serious?  _ She shook her head and her hands--no, she didn't want to be in the party; a  _ cellar, _ she wanted a  _ cellar-- _

"Hello there?"

_ Oh, bats. _

Te'ijal's mind was already racing with solutions to this blunder before the interloper was in view. They could lure the human into the woods with a little applied charm; Gyendal excelled at that. Hopefully this wasn't a party guest. She turned to look.

It was.

The woman looked young for a human; she most likely hadn't yet reached her centennial birthday. Her face was a little long, cheeks high and lips full. Brown eyes surveyed the twins, hooded under low lids, and her hair, also brown but so dark it might be called black, was half drawn back to crown her head in stylish plaits. She wore a green dress with delicate silvery lining, detailed with minuscule, sparkling crystals like early spring frost on verdant new growth. The fabric was  _ crumpled _ , textured to one’s eye like the bark of the Wildwood trees around the woman's low, scooping neckline and her sculpted bust.

Te'ijal wanted to touch it.

"Hello," she murmured back. She rose to her feet casually, keeping to the shadows, pretending she had every right to be there but also just a bit distracted, transfixed by a single lock of hair that tumbled from the woman's jaw down the span of her neck to curl softly just below her collarbone.

The curl dipped and bobbed as the woman stepped closer. "What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?" she asked. Closer, and Te'ijal's face prickled. "In the dark?"

Te'ijal kicked behind her to see whether Gyendal was already gone--he was. A heat like that of a dozen oil lamps simmered beneath her skin. She ran her eyes along the woman again, getting stuck,  _ stuck _ on that tantalizing shape where the point of her chin curved in unbroken white to meet the slope of her chest.

"I live nearby," Te'ijal said, swallowing the lie like a thorn. She hated lying. "In... the forest."

The woman raised her eyebrows. "In the forest, now? Don't you know that it's dangerous?"

"I am adept at self-defense."

She stepped a foot closer, her shoulders swaying and rippling the low-cut sleeves of her dress. "Defense against anything?" she pressed. "Even against vampires?"

"Of course," Te'ijal retaliated, a little too quickly.

The woman smiled, her cool brown eyes unmoving. "I didn't mean to offend. I saw no stake at your belt, nor garlic, so I grew concerned you may be unprepared. And all alone."

_ When did she end up so close I could hardly bend my arm without touching her? _

Te'ijal struggled to keep their eyes locked, ignoring the lips, the throat, everything soft and stirring rhythmically a short glance below. She said, "Decapitation and incineration are equally effective tools in the destruction of a vampire."

"I see. Is that what your bow is for?"

"I--I can fire a flaming arrow if I must," replied Te'ijal, the dishonesty beginning to burn in her mouth.

"But to decapitate…?" The woman rested an elbow on the stone fence.

"My brother carries a blade," Te'ijal blurted without thinking.

"Your brother?"

_ "Beatrice!" _ called a human from within the garden. "What are you doing?"

Te'ijal slunk back into the darkness, glancing around for Gyendal, but before she could find him and depart, the woman called back, "I've met a woman from nearby! I want Lord Salviati to meet her." She turned to Te'ijal and, acting faster than Te'ijal's shock could dissipate, took a cold hand in her own, plush and nearly creaseless. With a widening smile, she murmured, "Come on."

Disarmed by the tinkle and sheen of starlight music, the yellow glow flooding the stones before her feet, and the strange, alluring, and unnervingly sharp woman whose thumb was now pressed to fit perfectly into her life line, Te'ijal allowed herself to be whisked out of the safe wild darkness and into the party.

"I--I--" Te'ijal struggled to catch herself as they wandered in past the rosebushes, the woman hooking their arms together at the elbows. "I am not dressed appropriately, I think," she finished, and then blinked, taken aback that her  _ outfit, _ of all things, was her present concern.

"Your presence was an unexpected gift," said the woman, squeezing Te'ijal's arm closer, bicep meeting bust. "Your attire is of no concern."

Te'ijal compared the fine dresses, their petticoats and shimmering shades and mother-of-pearl embroidery, flowing sleeves and flattering cuts, to her own hunting garb, a simple coat over a belted tunic and plain trousers. Her coat was all right; it was embroidered in red thread from the high collar to the hem. Gyendal's matched--they had stitched it all in his parlor together.

She glanced back over the wall and saw two eyes, pupils red and glowing, glaring back at her.

"My name is Beatrice," said the woman. She smiled, close-lipped, up at Te'ijal. "How may I address you?"

“Oh…."  _ If I were fey, this would be folly, and for a good reason. _ "Te'ijal."

"I've never met a Te'ijal before." Beatrice's smile widened, her eyes narrowing, shaded by sweeping lashes. "Is it a common name?"

Te'ijal cocked her head, caught off-guard. "I have not met another."

Beatrice--nearly a foot shorter than Te'ijal--squeezed their elbows close again, pressing most of Te'ijal's forearm into the side of her cushy chest. By the  _ darkness, _ she--she had a  _ lot _ to work with, this woman. For a moment, Te'ijal felt her head detach from her body and float somewhere behind her shoulders. Her hands buzzed.

"Let's introduce you," said Beatrice before Te'ijal could catch up with herself; then, "Alessandro! Vittoria! Where is Lord Cosimo?"

A man, perhaps older than Beatrice, and a lady with white-blonde hair and a yellow dress broke away from the crowd. The lady spoke first. "He went inside. Who is this?"

Beatrice unlinked her arm from Te'ijal's and snaked it slowly around her waist, running her fingers quite low. "This is Te'ijal," she announced. "She's my guest tonight."

The man (Alessandro?) spoke while Te'ijal tried to figure out what to do with her arm, her back, her shoulders, her entire body, which suddenly felt stiff. He said something like, "Welcome, Te'ijal; it's a pleasure to have you," and Vittoria echoed it before offering to send a serving boy to find Lord Cosimo. Te'ijal wasn't listening. As she was guided around the sumptuous little courtyard, nodding uncomfortably to barons with beating hearts, she stared sideways down her shoulder at her benefactor, the belle whose worrying thumb was brushing up-down-up to the rhythm of the violin waltz. With her other hand, Beatrice brushed her dark hair behind her ear, and Te’ijal marveled at the coolness of her heavy eyes and forward pout. The shadow beneath her high cheekbone offered a regality she already radiated in spades. The illumination led Te’ijal’s eye down her neck; perfect, unblemished cream highlighted the carotid pulse from her jaw down to her sleek shoulder.

“Have you lived in the area long, Lady Te’ijal?”

A moment of whiplash drew Te’ijal’s attention back to the man standing in front of her.  _ Lord Cosimo… Salviati? _ People were gathered around him, and Beatrice was smiling as if he were important. “I have never lived anywhere else,” replied Te’ijal carefully, satisfied with the non-lie.

Lord Cosimo sipped his glass of golden liquid, no ice. “Ahh, a native. I am a recent transplant to the area, though I may return west in the fall. How fortuitous that I have made such a lovely connection so soon in my resettlement! Maurice--fetch her a drink. The Verdicchio.”

Te’ijal watched Cosimo snap and wave his fingers, amazed that the tall man known as “Maurice” would respond so swiftly to his request. She didn’t think to decline the drink until it was in her hand.

“Oh--thank you.”

She sipped it. It tasted like the detergent they used to scrub the pantry.

“Do you have anything like it on the eastern isle, Te’ijal?” asked Beatrice.

“Well, I--do not imbibe, usually, so I cannot compare,” replied Te’ijal.

“Ah, yes! I understand the folk of the eastern empire typically favor tea over spirits,” puffed Cosimo, evidently proud of himself. “One of my fondest passions and hobbies is the collection of teapots; an eccentricity, perhaps, but a fulfilling one, and not the least of the reasons I’ve emigrated to the east for my summer home.”

Te’ijal’s eyes widened. “Teapots, you say? I have heard that in the mining cities of the mainland, the nobility now use  _ silver _ in their teapots; do you have one like this?”

Lord Cosimo chuckled. “I believe I have one or two, indeed! Such enthusiasm for kettles I hadn’t expected in a young lady from the lightless woods of the Eastern Isle.”

She felt a little colder suddenly as Beatrice’s arm left her back, but it found its way to her shoulder as the woman suggested, “Why not go inside and take a look? I find Lord Salviati’s collection quite stimulating.”

Something about the way Beatrice finished that sentence made Te’ijal even more interested in teapots. She wet her lips. “That would be so exciting... I do not know how I could merely look and not touch.”

“Ah, true. But the more you want to touch them, the more you notice when you can only look.”

Cosimo smiled. “I take pleasure knowing I’ve so engrossed my Beatrice in the lesser-acknowledged arts of the world.”

Beatrice smiled back, but glanced up at Te’ijal. “I take pleasure, too, Lord Salviati.”

Te’ijal sucked down a long sip of the wine, which she despised, and glanced away, suddenly nervous beyond measure. She hadn’t time to self-analyze as her eye was caught by a movement in the rose bushes--Gyendal, trying to sneak in? What was he  _ thinking? _ Her jaw dropped just before Maurice snapped around to face him and strode urgently from one corner of the courtyard to the bushes. Staring fast at her, Gyendal didn’t notice the butler until one arm was fast in the man’s gloved hand and he was dragged, squinting, into the glare of firelight.

_ “Just who are you, then?” _ Te’ijal heard the tense whisper easily from across the courtyard while the humans strained against the ongoing party hum. She furrowed her brow. Gyendal could easily escape from the butler’s grip, but…  _ he knows I must fight if he does. He knows we will both be exposed. _

_ I must do something-- _

“This is Te’ijal’s brother,” called out Beatrice, calm as could be. “He must be looking for her.”

Lord Cosimo plodded forward and waved Maurice away, allowing the butler to drop his prey and return to his standard duties. “Delightful, delightful!” crowed Lord Cosimo, holding out a hand for Gyendal to shake. “My name is Lord Cosimo Salviati, owner of this modest estate. How may I address you, young man?”

Gyendal’s face was even as he replied, “Spook.”

“Well met, my dear Spook. Te’ijal is here; Beatrice brought her to meet me. We were just discussing teapots, somewhat of an odd fascination of mine! Maurice! A glass of the Malvasia for Master Spook. Spook, your family seems a delight; do tell me more of where you’re from.”

Beatrice snapped her fingers suddenly and pressed her other hand at Te’ijal’s shoulder, steering her towards the door to the house. “Oh! That reminds me, Te’ijal. Have you ever heard of the Thaisian coppersmith Giselle Dufresne?”

“I have not.” Te’ijal swept her eyes over the door. “I may come in?”

“Please come in, Te’ijal.” Beatrice stood in the doorway, a couple inches taller than before yet still barely able to look Te’ijal in the eye, and laughed.

Te’ijal took her hand and stepped up into the manor light.

Carved brown stone vases full of ferns and flowers garnished this open room. One little spitting-face fountain, either a gargoyle or a cherub at a different angle, dribbled into a long, shallow stone basin to the side. A dining table adorned in fine cloth looked untouched, as if Lord Cosimo hadn't hosted anyone since he'd moved in. The scents of the kitchen floated from the hall to the left, but Beatrice led Te’ijal, hand in hand, down the dimmer hall before them. It soon turned to the left as well, and as the music faded into the background hum, all Te’ijal could hear was a steady pulsing up the length of her arm and half her spine to her ear, beating from the hand gripping hers. They were alone, and Beatrice made her  _ so  _ hungry, but this woman was too important to the landowner. She was untouchable.

Beatrice took a hidden key from a bookshelf and unlocked a set of wooden double doors. She ushered Te’ijal into a room which might’ve belonged in a museum--glass cases full of curios organized by type, then further by location of origin, and again by year; little plaques detailing the contents of each shelf; a chair or settee here and there for the viewers’ comfort; scattered bookshelves, punctuated with bizarre yet stately bookends. Te’ijal dragged her fingers along the blue velvet upholstery one way, then the other as she walked past. A staircase led up to what looked like a lofted floor full of more trinkets. Te’ijal could see the second-floor railing and the top of a statue from the two-story room at the end of the hall, where more bookshelves offered tomes on only the spectating stars could guess what. An empty fireplace nestled opposite a camelback sofa in the spacious end chamber, a tremendous shaggy rug separating them both. The room was illuminated by the gentle glow of night from a large sunburst window occupying most of the side wall.

While Te’ijal marveled at Lord Cosimo’s prized collection, Beatrice lit a few candles in their sconces. “‘Tis astounding, what excellent vision you have in the dark,” she commented.

Te’ijal clasped her hands behind her, wandering back over to Beatrice. “There are many things about your people I, too, do not understand.”

“Oh?” Beatrice’s smile twitched, containing her mirth. “Such as?”

“For example… your children.”

There was a long pause. Slowly, Beatrice asked, “What about them?”

“I do not understand them.”

“Nor do we.”

Beatrice curled her fingers around Te’ijal’s arm, and they strolled to the teakettles. A clay set from Veldarah was the first to catch Te’ijal’s eye. “This one is  _ valuable,” _ she breathed.

“They all are,” said Beatrice.

“The leaves brewed in these pots seep into the clay over time!” continued Te’ijal, excited. “If you drink tea from this pot, you are also drinking the tea of everyone who used it before!”

“It belonged to the Emperor’s cousin.”

Agape, Te’ijal allowed herself to be led along by her hostess.

The next teapot was made of glass, yet it looked more like a work of art than a piece of kitchenware. It seemed layered on the inside with image after image, together composing a three-dimensional depiction of the exodus from the Snow Queen’s mythical kingdom in the north.

“I have never seen  _ anything _ so well-blown,” she murmured.

“Oh, I’ve been to some parties which would blow your mind, at the very least,” chuckled Beatrice. Her tone made Te’ijal shiver.

“So many layers of glass…” Te’ijal pressed closer to the case. “It must stay hot for a while.”

“But you’ve got to be careful.” Beatrice stroked her fingers down to Te’ijal’s wrist. “When you get them going, they become quite hot to the touch.”

Te’ijal wished for a moment that the fiction of vampiric heartlessness were true, for Beatrice could surely feel hers beating uncontrollably. Beatrice’s own pulse prancing like an unruly colt gave Te’ijal a little thrill as she felt it, felt the heat of racing blood. She glanced sideways at Beatrice with a long smile and moved to the next case.

“This is the copper one you mentioned, the Dufresne?” Te’ijal gestured at the teapot.

“‘Tis just the one. What do you think?”

“The spout. I have never seen one so long before, or so upright.”

“Indeed; ‘tis one of the longest I’ve seen.”

“But so large….” Te’ijal’s tongue flicked between her lips. “I can only imagine it spilling all over you.”

“Well, spouts have never really interested me, but  _ these,” _ said Beatrice, bending down a little to examine a white teapot. “I’ve always loved these.”

Te’ijal wasn’t staring at the teapot. “I have always enjoyed them, myself.”

“So round… porcelain….” Beatrice laughed breathily, her chest heaving and bobbing. “I’m always happy when I can get my hands on a set of these.”

_ And I, my teeth. _

“Te’ijal.” Beatrice stood, tossing her hair behind her bare shoulders. “I am staying with Lord Cosimo for a time, as long as he is on this isle, and I intend to petition him to hold one of these soirees each month on the new moon.”

“This is a splendid idea,” said Te’ijal, unconsciously stepping closer. “The party is enthralling.”

“I’m glad you think so.” They stood inches apart now, every quick, heavy breath Beatrice took a subject of Te’ijal’s fascination, each thump of her heart a tic in Te’ijal’s lip. Beatrice coquettishly lowered her chin and gazed up at Te’ijal through her thick eyelashes. She was nearly whispering now. “Would you come again next month?”

She couldn’t think anymore, she couldn’t think at all with her mouth watering and her hips aching and parts of her body throbbing in ways that an undead body doesn’t frequently throb. She took one look down at Beatrice, realized this night was going to end, realized that she  _ desperately _ wanted to see Beatrice again, to feel these things with her, and Te’ijal said, “I shall.”

Beatrice drew away with a happy hum and headed toward the exit. “Wonderful! Come; the party may be ending, but I may still be able to introduce you to one or two of Lord Cosimo’s friends.”

Te’ijal blinked, taken aback. She smelled  _ heat _ on this woman--how could she brush it aside like that? Unable to make sense of the inconstant minx, Te’ijal just followed.

Back in the courtyard, she met Lord Antonio, Lord Alfonso, and Lady Marianna, who were all from a tiny island kingdom called Ittisola just west of the Western Isle. Gyendal was listening to someone complain about the weather in the Eastern Empire ( _ “rains water, then leaves, then spiders in that order” _ in so many words), and Beatrice had delicately stationed herself at Lord Cosimo’s arm, laughing politely at his jokes and never severing her attention from him.

Except for once. Once, when Te’ijal stared at her a little longer than she’d realized, and Beatrice locked eyes with her from across the courtyard, lowered her chin a bit toward her shoulder, and gave Te’ijal the tiniest, slyest smile.

Not knowing just what that smile meant made it ripple through Te’ijal’s body all the harder.

Twenty minutes later, Beatrice bade the guests adieu, for she was suddenly too tired to socialize any longer. She nodded at Marianna and Alfonso and Antonio and Alessandro, and she gave Vittoria a gentle upper-body hug, and Maurice took her hand and helped her up the step to the manor. She said nothing to Te'ijal.

Gyendal, smelling of blood, found his sister moping outside the stone barrier, crouched with her knees to her chin, after nearly every guest had left. "Are you ready to go?" he asked.

Te'ijal sighed. "I am starving."

"You did not drink, then."

Rather than admit it, Te'ijal made a woeful  _ mmnn _ noise.

Gyendal shook his head and crouched beside her. "You were with that green-dressed woman in the house, she wants you like a witch wants hazel, and you do not take even a taste? Why?"

"Does she want me so?" murmured Te'ijal.

"What?"

"Nothing." Te'ijal sat cross-legged and rested her chin on her fists.  _ Why did I not drink from her? What stopped me?  _ "I… I do not know why."

Gyendal huffed through his nose. “I do not understand.”

_ Nor do I. _

“We must get you some blood, then. You were invited in, so go. Be quick.”

Te’ijal grimaced and turned her eyes to the manor. Some of the windows, previously alight, were dark as the night around her. Neither violin nor tipsy mirth broke the chilly cricket sonata, and only two coaches remained in waiting for their owners. It would be a challenge to break in with most of the manor’s occupants still awake, recovering from their event, but she could do it.

“The cellar is on the far end, its door embedded in the ground,” said Gyendal without being asked.

Not another word was spoken. In an instant, Te’ijal sprinted around the perimeter of the garden, a blur between Gyendal and the far corner of the house, all but invisible to any human eye who dared try to trace her.

A housemaid would do. That, and perhaps a souvenir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is an elaborate jellybean counting game except instead of jellybeans you just have to guess how many references there are to Beatrice's boobs


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May.

It was cloudy on the new moon in May, the wind stirring now and then, rustling strong, defiant new leaves on zealous shrubs. The dry roots and twigs, which hadn’t seen water in nearly a week, begged for rain from the mocking clouds. The owls cried out their night-magic spells, the frogs in their mud temples croaked fervently, and the crickets, undaunted by the lightless sky, sang on to anyone who would listen.

For the first time in five thousand, eight hundred and fifty six lunar cycles, Te’ijal hunted alone.

She left before Gyendal was ready to go, cloaking herself in black so he might not see her, and set out west like a gliding kite. She didn’t ask herself why she was leaving him behind; she just knew that she’d spent twenty-eight days aching for another chance to just look at her, to speak to her, or--stars willing--to touch Beatrice.

She had a plan this time. She lured a coachman into the woods and sucked out almost every drop of his blood, leaving a little left for the foxes and raccoons, and then, quenched, she put on her gloves and entered the garden through the rosebushes.

Beatrice was there with a glass and a smile, almost as if she’d been waiting for Te’ijal.

“You’re welcome to use the front door, you know. We don’t employ a doorman to sit on his thumbs.”

As Beatrice rose, Te’ijal first noticed how precarious her cleavage seemed in the square neckline of her lilac silk dress. There was structure to the corsetry underneath, but somehow, its impeccable fit made Te’ijal even more concerned that the bodice would swiftly cease to function should Beatrice lean any further forward. Little crimped flowers in different shades of purple decorated the dress, which sported long, tight sleeves and a loose skirt. Two plaits hugged Beatrice’s skull, meeting at the back of her head in an elaborate twisted knot; her dark hair was decorated with more of the flowers from her dress.

Te’ijal remembered to meet Beatrice’s eyes. “Um, yes, I will remember,” she managed.

Beatrice smiled with all of her perfect teeth. Steel earrings spiraling down by her cheeks danced and glittered with the slightest motion of her face. “Did you have difficulty getting to the party, with the clouds concealing all the light?”

“I did not.”

“Oh, excellent.”

Beatrice took Te’ijal’s arm and led her into the party.

“You remember Vittoria.” Beatrice waved to her left. “And Francesco!” She waved to the right.

“Hello, Francesco,” Te’ijal dared, bobbing her head.

“My lady,” Francesco said with a smile.

“He never recalls names,” whispered Beatrice from the corner of her mouth. “Do not take it personally.”

“I only remembered his because you told me,” Te’ijal whispered back, immediately feeling foolish for her naive bluntness. But Beatrice giggled behind her hand.

“I like your traveling cloak,” she said. “But what have you got on underneath?”

“I can show you.” Te’ijal faced Beatrice, stepping further into the light for the human’s convenience, and untied her cloak. Beatrice scanned Te’ijal’s aerodynamic sweater and leggings, black accented with red, and one eyebrow slowly rose on her forehead.

“I see.” She whisked about, taking Te’ijal’s hand. “Come with me, poppet; we’re going inside.”

_ Did she just refer to me by a nickname? _

Te’ijal absently touched her cheek, trotting along just behind Beatrice. “Are you taking me back to the display room?” she asked.

“No. But wouldn’t you know….” Beatrice slowed to lean back against a wall. She crossed her arms, creating an even steeper slope upon the rise of her chest.

“Would I not know what?” asked Te’ijal, standing a little closer than a lady would.

“One of the teapots went missing that night.”

“Oh? Really?” Te’ijal’s eye contact didn’t waver, but in her periphery, she watched Beatrice breathe. “Which one?”

“The round one.” Beatrice licked her lips, nearly imperceptible. “Porcelain.”

“Oh, that one was my favorite.”

“I’d noticed.”

Te’ijal bit her inner lip and forced herself to back down immediately before she could make a horrible mistake involving her sharpest teeth and Beatrice’s bosom. Something about Beatrice’s smile as they locked arms and continued down the hall made Te’ijal think Beatrice could read her mind in that moment.  _ Oh, let me not be hungry for another witch! _

They approached the foyer and ascended a massive wooden staircase carpeted in a fine velveteen fabric, Beatrice chatting idly about Lord Cosimo’s original plans for this enfilade or those corbels. Te’ijal found herself wishing she’d brought a notebook. Her interest in the conversation faded quickly, however, when it seemed Beatrice was leading Te’ijal directly to her own bedroom.

Just before the end of the second floor hall, Beatrice led her through a door on the right and confirmed her preoccupation by declaring, “This is my bedroom.”

Beatrice, or whoever had furnished the room, had simple tastes. The bedsheets and upholstery were in shades of a deep sea blue, just tinged with green. She had a long writing desk, which was remarkably well-organized in such a way that put Te’ijal’s own study space to shame; not one sheet stuck out at an odd angle from another. Her bookshelf was filled with tomes in several different languages, on a variety of subjects spanning genealogy to arcana to especially scholarly volumes which blended such disparate topics. She had a tidy vanity and sizable wardrobe, three bear pelts spanning her floor, a painting of a ship in a storm and a painting of a fairy, a folding screen, an old trunk, and that was it. No coffins or thumbscrews.

Beatrice crossed the room to the wardrobe beside the drawn window and pulled open the doors. "Sit down on the bed," she commanded. "I want to find something."

Te'ijal could think of no reason not to obey. She watched the curve of Beatrice's back flex and stretch, the glistening purple fabric bunching here and there, while Beatrice sifted through the dresses in the wardrobe. Lacy hems in metallic shades peeked out here and there, making Te’ijal desperately curious about the styles therein.

“I have never seen dresses like yours, Beatrice,” she ventured.

Beatrice gave a close-lipped chuckle, tossing garments over an arm. “Have you never met a Sedonan before?”

_ Aha! _ “I have not. You are from Sedona?”

“Regrettably.”

“Why do you regret it?”

Beatrice shut the wardrobe door, an armful of dresses in tow, and sat on the bed beside Te’ijal with a sigh. “Sedonans can be… close-minded. Dogmatic. But it’s not as if they chased me away; I wanted to leave whether they valued me or not.”

She punctuated the statement with a smile and began straightening out her selections on the bed. Te’ijal watched the motions of her body, each flowing into another, marveling at the perfect rhythm between the stretch of her arm and the… jiggle. It was a good thing, Te’ijal thought, that she’d eaten before coming to the party; a good idea indeed.

“The dresses are beautiful,” she said, not taking her eyes from Beatrice.

“Aren’t they just?” replied Beatrice, her eyes sparkling. “I wasn’t sure I could find anything to match your hair and your…  _ complexion, _ but we’re going to try these two.”

Te’ijal’s eyes widened. “These are for me?”

“To borrow. Stand up, poppet.”

The nickname sent a warm shiver down Te’ijal’s center as she stood from the bed. Beatrice took the first gown and a petticoat, held them up, and stood next to Te’ijal. It was a dark brown with off-the-shoulder sleeves and two sets of laces down the front. Te’ijal immediately ran her finger up and down the fabric; it was sleek, like a pebble in an ancient river.

“Oh….”

“You like it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Shall I undress you?”

Te’ijal balked. “I--y--?”

“Well, goodness; you  _ may _ do it yourself if you prefer.” Beatrice rolled her eyes and turned around before Te’ijal could regain her composure.

Te’ijal’s cheeks twitched. She just hadn’t expected that. “Is that… is that how it is done in Sedona?”

Beatrice chuckled. “When appropriate.”

She left it at that. Te’ijal took the dress and petticoat from her, sensing that she’d lost the moment, and retreated behind the folding screen less for her own privacy and more to respect Beatrice’s intriguing social game. Te’ijal hung her cape neatly on the rack behind her--it had to be neat; everything else in this room was--and stripped herself of her hunting outfit, piece by piece. She turned to the petticoat and curled her lip with determination.

Two minutes later and she could still see nothing but off-white linen from every angle. She huffed in frustration. Muffled, she called, “I did not realize these had so many layers!”

“You put it on over your head, didn’t you?” Beatrice replied. “If it doesn’t have arms, just pull it up over your legs!”

“Oh.”

Beatrice laughed. “And hurry up! Pull it all the way up over your chest so the waistline matches that of the dress, and then put on the dress. I chose this one because it’s stretchy, so it should still fit your bust, but it may be a little short, so--oh, come on, come out and I’ll finish for you!”

Te’ijal stepped out with the petticoat on over her chest and the sleeves of the dress hanging loosely over her arms, the lacing still undone. “The skirt is halfway up my calves.”

“Oh… that’s no good; try the other one. I was hoping we could play it off as fashionable, but I think not.”

“You are fashionable,” commented Te’ijal as she returned behind the screen. “Do you sew?”

“I don’t. I just know what looks good. What’s young, you might say.”

“You seem young,” Te’ijal guessed.

Beatrice laughed softly. “I get younger every year.”

A few minutes later, after some idle chat about the corsetry and skirts particular to the Western Isle, Te’ijal emerged wearing a black gown accented with silver, a square neckline and bell sleeves completing the look. The dress just barely hit the floor, but Beatrice nodded in approval.

“Normally I reserve that gown for funerals, but I think I’ll make an exception, as it looks so good on you. And… I did say it would be on loan for tonight, but….” She stepped closer, biting her lower lip.

Te’ijal had to remember to pretend to breathe. “It is… loose at the chest.”

Beatrice smiled. “Just because it looks so stunning on you, I’ll alter it right here, permanently, and you can keep it. Your very own Sedonan dress.” She breezed the back of her hand down Te’ijal’s cheek, then her neck, her chest; Te’ijal knew Beatrice could see her breasts swell and her nipples harden instantly from that vantage point. “How do you like that?”

With a twitch of her lip, Te’ijal held Beatrice’s gaze, despite how nervous she suddenly felt. “I believe you already know how excited I am.”

“Wonderful!” Beatrice clapped her hands once and skipped away towards her desk. “My sewing kit is in here.”

Te’ijal could feel her body, and all its heightened, vampiric senses, begging to be touched again. It had been a while since the last time she’d dallied with someone (had it been Gavin? By the stars--he was a terrible lover; he only bothered pleasuring himself) and her nerves would not let her forget it. But Beatrice was a human, and ostensibly, Te’ijal’s prey. Te’ijal made a note to find someone in Halloween Hills who wanted to fuck.

The sewing kit came out, and a silver glint caught Te’ijal’s eye. She crossed her arms. “That is a lovely sewing kit.”

“Thank you! ‘Tis brand new from Veldarah.”

“The needles--are they silver?”

“Steel.” Beatrice threaded a needle and turned to face Te’ijal. ”I don’t care for silver.”

Te’ijal uncrossed her arms and straightened the loose bodice of her dress, feeling the fabric rub against her tantalizingly. She smiled. “Shall I hold up my arms, Lady Beatrice?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> July.

June came. Te'ijal had spent the entire month prior reading obsessively about Sedonan customs, history, civics, fashion, arts. She gathered all the wealth she'd accumulated in currency from scattered nations the names of which she didn't know, and she petitioned the witches to purchase a dress on her behalf, repeating the measurements Beatrice had told her in the bedroom until one of them, Griselda, relented and took the money.

And then Mortella whinged and blubbered at Te'ijal for a few days, all but begging her indirectly to join her hunt this month--Gyendal could come too--it's just that _everyone_ was putting garlic in their stew these days, you see, and Mortella's nose was quite upturned and poor at sniffing out the _safe_ humans, and--she was _very_ hungry; wouldn't it be fun if they all went, all three--

So Te'ijal hung her new dress in the closet and hunted with Mortella and Gyendal during the clear new moon night of June. They trapped a traveling family camping unwittingly in Mortella's territory and made quick work of them all. Quick enough, Te'ijal hoped, as they ran home and she peeled off, dashing west as silently as she could against the urgency in her muscles.

The lights were out. Not a soul stirred. Disappointed, Te'ijal sank down against the wall of the manor beside Beatrice's ocean-blue window and stayed there until just before dawn.

  


Te'ijal sat watching the sunset by the open mouth of the Halloween Hills cave, her dress, such a dark red it looked black in most light, splayed about her. The skirt was voluminous, supported by a thick petticoat layer, and she'd carefully laced up the bodice tight to push up her breasts (staring closely at the illustrative page of a dressmaker's guidebook all the while). She was no Beatrice, but she felt that, if she could see herself now, she would see allure. She would see someone who could turn heads, not just snap necks.

The shadows of the forest deepened as the first stars glimmered to life above. Te'ijal gathered her skirt in her hands. She was still wearing her hunting boots, of course--she had to run and sneak. Dinner only came once a month. She bit her lip; should she just pick something up on the way?

A little tingle ran through Te'ijal's entire body the way it always did when the night of the new moon fell. Without wasting a second, she was on her feet, skirt balled in her fist, and out the exit, oblivious to the figure flattened against the cliffs beneath New Witchwood, gaze fixed upon her.

Te'ijal regretfully ignored a human outpost that was just outside the edge of her territory, instead continuing her marathon to the northwest. She daydreamed for a moment of hunting with a vampire Beatrice, playing social games at parties and destroying the lives of the well-fed aristocracy. Beatrice would have countless thralls, surely, but… the two of them could go together sometimes, when the thralls were dry; seduce foolish counts, rebellious duchesses… perhaps both of them with one at once….

_...By the moon._

Te'ijal had never thought of drinking like _sex_ before.

She found the beachside cliff and let the open winds cool her off, which she desperately needed. Dinner would be an interesting affair tonight.

The night's early summer warmth felt wonderful on Te'ijal's bare upper chest, and she wished she'd gotten a dress without sleeves so she could feel the air on as much of her skin as possible. She closed her eyes and sipped it in as she approached the manor. Recalling Beatrice's instructions, Te'ijal plunged back into the forest and wound around the manor, seeking the road.

A little awkwardly, like a child stepping into a bath she worries is too cold, Te'ijal let one boot hit the path, then the next. She didn't use human roads often--something about them felt nearly as prohibitive as crosses. But she didn't burn, so she turned west again and walked, practicing her posture with her shoulders back and her chin lifted. She had lived like an animal for so long.

The coachmen bowed respectfully when she approached, but the horses whinnied and pawed the ground anxiously, and the men apologetically busied themselves calming them down. Te'ijal wondered if perfume might've helped shield her against the horses--oh, she hoped they didn't have a dog or a cat hiding somewhere inside. The doorman bowed for her as well, and she nodded her head.

"Good evening, my lady."

"Good evening!" Te'ijal responded. "I am a guest of Lady Beatrice."

"She will be glad to see you."

Te'ijal felt as if she had a heart that fluttered as the doorman pushed the door open for her. _She will be glad to see me._

"Enjoy the party, my lady."

Te'ijal stepped inside, the doorman shut the door behind her, and all was much quieter.

As she proceeded down the hallway, carpet depressing slightly beneath her boots with each step, maids paused to curtsy for her before scurrying past with one vital task or another. She could tell by now where they were running _from_ with their brooms and mops and caustic cleaning chemicals, so it wouldn’t be hard to track down the cleaning closet later, hide for a bit, trap herself a satisfying meal. The trick would be creeping around the manor while everyone else left or retired to bed--not long enough for the servants to finish their work, but long enough that her whereabouts would be hard to track.

Te’ijal shrugged. She’d executed far more difficult heists. Why focus on it now?

Beatrice was upon her, in a midnight blue dress which treated her figure in the exact same manner as the previous two dresses, the instant Te’ijal stepped down from the idle dining room to the garden. “Lady Te’ijal!” she hailed, offering an embrace. “How lovely you look tonight!”

“As do you, Lady Beatrice,” responded Te’ijal, returning the hug. She let her hand slide down the smooth arc of Beatrice’s back for just a second, a split second in which she felt Beatrice press her hips ever so slightly forward, before they parted with propriety.

They linked arms and began a loop around the garden so Te’ijal could greet the usual suspects and decline a glass of rosé. “Where were you last month?” asked Beatrice casually. “I told Marianne you’d teach her a local dance.”

“I am sorry. I was called to attend to an emergency.”

“An emergency? I thought I left the summer fires back on the Western Isle.”

Te’ijal shook her head. “It was not like that. A friend was in need.”

Beatrice squeezed Te’ijal’s arm. “You are a noble soul, pet.”

That nickname brought warmth to Te’ijal’s neck which traveled down her spine and made her stand a little straighter. She was no one’s pet--but beneath the confrontational impulse was a devilish excitement, something that would take a different sort of satisfaction in correcting Beatrice’s mistake.

They finished their loop, and Beatrice took a mushroom hors d’oeuvre from a serving boy’s tray. Wrinkling her nose, she took a small bite of the pastry and swallowed quickly.

“I do not see you eat frequently at these parties,” commented Te’ijal. “Do you sit for dinner?”

Tossing her hair behind her head, Beatrice replied, “I don’t care to eat much.”

“Why not?”

“‘Tis not to my liking.” Beatrice shrugged a shoulder and turned her head away, skin falling away from her thin collarbone as she breathed. “The effort to which we must go just to keep our unsound bodies alive.”

Te’ijal tilted her head. “What?”

Beatrice turned back to her with half a smile and something twinkling behind her low eyelids. “And what of you? If I eat little food, you eat none.”

At that moment, Cosimo barrelled into their conversation, smelling of gin not served by the waiters and the tomato sauce speckling his doublet. “Lady Te’ijal!” he exclaimed, pulling Beatrice in with one hand just above her waist. “A pleasure to see you again, my dear.”

Beatrice subtly positioned herself a step further away from Cosimo, whose hand was roaming about her side now, further up, then further down. When she moved, he dropped it slowly, hovering low on her back while it descended.

Te’ijal narrowed her eyes.

“It is a pleasure to see you as well, Lord Salviati.”

“Please--Cosimo. Now, what stories have we to tell this evening? How shall we make our Beatrice gasp tonight?”

Beatrice gasped, lurching forward. Te’ijal knew her eyes jumped first in the same direction as Cosimo’s. But she caught the flicker of contempt in Beatrice’s expression directed at Cosimo just before it passed and she laughed coyly, hands pressed against her sternum to cover her chest.

“Woe; it seems I am to be the victim yet again!” giggled Beatrice, a tantalizing blush rising to her cheeks.

Cosimo took one of her hands, and she dragged it down her breast, the flesh full and tense. He smiled a little wider and said, “I shall ensure that you enjoy it, my dear.”

Beatrice separated from Cosimo, touching Te’ijal’s shoulder and laughing. Te’ijal squinted. Cosimo may be intoxicated, but he clearly thought of Beatrice as… _his,_ and Beatrice provided no explicit objection. Why would Beatrice participate in this facade if the man disgusted her so? And why… why did their apparent affair make her frigid blood boil?

“Perhaps you can tell a story of Sedona tonight,” Beatrice suggested.

Beatrice wrapped both arms around one of Te’ijal’s, squishing against her in such a way that no sooner was Te’ijal calmed than she was piqued again. “Yes; I would enjoy hearing more about the Western Isle,” she said, keeping her arm very still as Beatrice breathed.

“Ahh, Sedona,” hummed Cosimo. “The heart and soul of the Arishta Isles. Veldarah and Veldt may triumph in longevity, but the spoils of progress go not to the elder, but to the wiser. Sedona knows it must march on with time!”

Te’ijal felt Beatrice expertly stifle a yawn.

“Now, if I may harken back to my own youth, faraway as that may seem--” he sipped his gin, and his hand wandered back to Beatrice as if of its own accord “--there was a queen by the name of Eleanor.”

Beatrice swept back to Cosimo, placing a hand on his chest, her hair and her dress flouncing as one. “Oh, Queen Eleanor! How I wish I’d lived during her reign; what a woman she was.”

Cosimo’s arm found its way down her back, then her derriere, with no trouble; it rested just below as if playing the role of a chair upon which Beatrice might perch. He gestured at Te’ijal with his drink, but stared at Beatrice as he spoke. “Now, the queen had this little dog….”

Te’ijal tuned him out and forced her vision to glaze over. If she paid too much attention to Cosimo, he wouldn’t wake up the next morning. And she would have a lot of gin in her own veins.

“Why don’t we go inside, Lord Cosimo?” asked Beatrice, tracing a little circle on his doublet just below his well-oiled beard. “To the library. There’s a book on Queen Eleanor with ever so many stories--I could read aloud to you.”

Lord Cosimo looked around. “I suppose I would have to invite the guests inside, wouldn’t I? The house isn’t prepared, my dove.”

Beatrice pouted. “I shall just have to read to you later, then. But I’d dearly love to show Lady Te’ijal the library.”

Cosimo glanced at her face before his gaze drifted back down. Te’ijal could see him getting one more good feel for everything touching him, for everything he was touching, before he slid his hand up her back to her shoulder and gave it a good rub. “Go on, then! I’m happy my Lady Daena has found a friend of a similar proclivity. No dog-ears.”

“I always use bookmarks, Cosimo,” tittered Beatrice.

She broke away from Cosimo and took Te’ijal’s hand. “Let’s go inside; I have a book I’m dying to show you.”

Te’ijal followed with what she hoped was an enthusiastic smile, but inside, she felt wrenched apart. She shouldn’t care at all about Beatrice’s relationship with the hog of the house, however fraudulent it may be, but she did, deeply and passionately. She wanted to destroy him. She wanted to cut off the lascivious hands that touched Beatrice, every part of her that made Te’ijal’s mouth water, every part she couldn’t drive her fangs into, which made the ache even more deliciously powerful. She wanted to cause him pain for all of Beatrice’s mortal youth he’d wasted. She wanted to burn down his vulgar house and carry Beatrice off.

By light _and_ darkness, she hoped Beatrice didn’t feel the same way about her.

Te’ijal shook the thought out of her head. What did Beatrice have to gain by faking affection for her? As far as Beatrice knew, Te’ijal was nothing special; she had no wealth, no power, no magic to offer.

As they walked down the hall opposite the curio suite, Te'ijal addressed something else that was bothering her. "Cosimo is--"

"He dotes on me and he fucks me," cut in Beatrice, who wore no ring. Te'ijal nodded and let it drop the rest of the way through the grand double doors.

Her hand still firmly clasped in Beatrice’s, she climbed the wooden library staircase to the lofted second floor, decorated much in the same way as the drawing room in Cosimo’s curio suite. The cathedral roof framed a large triangular transom window with a magnificent view of the sky. Shelves were built directly into the walls, as were cozy, cushioned benches which bent around the corners of the room, adorned with overstuffed pillows. Shorter shelves, back-to-back, blocked off the center of the room for the privacy of the loveseat situated there. A book on the rodents of the Eastern Isle sat on the end table.

Beatrice let go of Te’ijal’s hand, and she felt suddenly as if that hand had stirred with life until this moment, when the warmth and sanguinity drained like water from a dishrag. Unconsciously, she held it close to her mouth. She watched as Beatrice scoured a bookshelf near the corner of the room, the steady light of the candelabra illuminating one half of her face in color, the boundless starlight through the window casting the other half in soft whites and shadows. The contours that comprised a human face--the lips, chin, jaw, cheek, brow--they looked softer to the touch, rounder than those of a vampire, thought Te’ijal. Even Beatrice, with the bone structure of a fairy and the sharp eyes of a naga, had a perfect, pronounced bow to her lip, an unbroken half-moon between her nose and her lashes, her earlobes like suspended droplets, swaying gently under the weight of her earrings. Te’ijal wanted to put her own lips to them each, but not to bite them. To feel them. To feel, see, hear what would happen as the skin, and the girl within it, responded to her touch.

Te’ijal bit her tongue, willing away the desire. _Have I not been told not to play with my food?_

“Here we are!” said Beatrice, pulling a large book bound in black leather from a high shelf. She stepped down from the bench upon which she was standing only to turn about and plop herself down in an unladylike fashion. “Come here and sit; look at this book.”

Te’ijal did so, sitting along the other edge of the bench corner to get a better look. The cover bore no marking, but the title page identified the volume and its author-- _HERMES’ ARCANUM: REFERENCE ON ANCIENT MAGICK AND THE OCCULT, VOL II, NECROMANTICISM AND DEMONOLOGY, by Hermes T._

She laughed. “This does not look like a treatise on Sedonan queens and their toy dogs!”

“‘Tis not, of course.” Beatrice smiled conspiratorially. “Did you truly believe I would drag you up here just for that?”

“You are an unpredictable woman, Beatrice.”

Beatrice leaned back, her hair tumbling away from her face, the smile just as shrewd but a touch softer. “Only when I let down my guard. Come on; I wanted to show you something fascinating for a change.”

She flipped through the dry, yellowed pages with her thumb until a little slip of paper fell from the book into her lap. Te’ijal tilted closer still, curious, as Beatrice leaned back to the wood-paneled wall, each resting against a firm pillow.

“This is a good one,” whispered Beatrice, as if someone might punish her for reading from this shelf in her host’s library. “‘The daevas. They’re the Aian manifestations of destruction and sin.”

Te’ijal scooted closer, her shoulder brushing against Beatrice’s. “It sounds as if they themselves cannot be destroyed.”

“Hermes agrees with you!” Beatrice turned her head with a brilliant grin. “Have you studied much of the occult?”

Suddenly shy, Te’ijal responded, “Some.”

“‘Tis my favorite subject, though ‘tis also difficult to practice, as a woman.” Beatrice’s tone was nonchalant. “Study is my practice.”

“What attracted you to the subject?”

Beatrice narrowed her eyes as she answered with a sly smile: “Power attracts. Does it not?”

Te’ijal curled her legs onto the bench. Instead of acknowledging the question, she said, “A paper is going to fall out of the book, there.”

“Oh.” Beatrice turned to the page tagged by the slip and let it fall. “Here we are. The succubus.”

The book shifted, and Te’ijal inched closer so she could still see it, her leg coming into contact with Beatrice’s. Neither moved away, instead staring at the lewd illustration on the page.

“She should have a second set of nipples,” commented Te’ijal. Beatrice giggled.

“You _are_ knowledgeable. It might cross one’s mind that you’ve….” She gestured upwards at the drawn succubus’ bottom with two fingers, glancing at Te’ijal.

Te’ijal laughed. “I, with a succubus? I would not subject myself to an eternity of servility and blackmail for a mere tryst.”

Beatrice shrugged. “I suppose everything has its price.”

“Whoever drew this page has not paid that price.” Te’ijal pointed at the succubus’ face. “A succubus always looks as if she is in the midst of being pleasured. This one looks more like an imp with an exceptional tongue.”

Beatrice leaned closer to the book, eyeing the drawing. “You are not making me want to meet a succubus any less, you realize.”

Te’ijal laughed. “They can do nothing for you that a partner with sufficient experience cannot.”

“Mm.” Another sideways glance. “A few decades of experience? A few centuries?”

Te’ijal nearly said something about the presumable experience of Lord Salviati, but just as she thought better of it, Beatrice turned the page, and Te’ijal forgot everything she’d ever wanted to say.

“‘Twas getting much too hot on that page, was it not? Anyway! This one may be my true favorite. What do you think?”

_The Vampire._

“I.…” Te’ijal felt her throat grow thick, and she said the only thing she could think to say. “Why are they your favorite?”

To her chagrin, Beatrice snuggled closer and rested her head against Te’ijal’s shoulder, the scent of her hair sending Te’ijal spinning. “Vampires have always been my favorite,” murmured Beatrice, stroking the image with her thumb, “because they are immortal, they are fast, they are strong, their senses are incomparable, they are stunningly beautiful… and any human can become one.” A tiny smile, which Te’ijal couldn’t see, twitched around Beatrice’s lips. “Any one.”

Te’ijal, focusing her entire mind on remembering to breathe, was slow to respond to Beatrice’s explanation. “It is not a pleasant process to turn,” she finally said.

Beatrice sniffed. “Of course not. I know that. But there’s an end to every calamity. There’s an end to the pain, and so, so much pleasure there.”

“You…” Te’ijal looked down at the pale hand which had strayed to just above her knee. “You are a woman who thinks in goals.”

Beatrice tilted her head back to capture Te’ijal’s gaze, their faces inches apart, their lips so damnably close. When Beatrice smiled, it was as if a brilliant light burst alive before Te’ijal’s eyes, dazzling her.

“That I am,” said Beatrice softly.

And it was then, for the first time, that it occurred to Te’ijal that Beatrice might know she was a vampire.

"I must feed my fish," Te'ijal announced, shooting to her feet.

Beatrice, catching herself with her hands on the cushion, uttered a confused "What?"

Te'ijal gathered her skirts for a hasty curtsy. "I am sorry, Lady Beatrice, but it is too important even though I have forgotten of it until just this very moment, and I must leave now. The party is lovely."

"What will one more hour do?" protested Beatrice, and for a moment, Te'ijal forgot she did not in fact own fish and agreed that, indeed, one more hour would cause no harm.

But Beatrice rose to advance on her sweetly, and the book fell from her lap to the floor with a dull _thunk._ Te'ijal spun around at once, leaving Beatrice to grab at her wrist from behind, and hurried away from the bench and down the library stairs. She didn't run, but she had a long stride, and she imagined it was difficult for her shorter pursuer to keep up.

"Te'ijal!" called Beatrice's low voice, her signature coolness still smothering the urgency of her words. "Lady Te'ijal! If I made you uncomfortable, I wish to apologize."

"You did not. I miss my fish."

"Te'ijal, wait." Beatrice finally cornered Te'ijal at the front door, or Te'ijal let her block the way. She held out her arms to obstruct the single open door, her slim figure hardly taking up half of the space. Her chest heaved with effort, strained breaths she took silently. Even after a sprint, Beatrice was still the most enticing being upon which Te'ijal had ever laid eyes.

"I am waiting."

Beatrice dropped her arms and laughed. Te'ijal watched the tension release from her posture. When she was finished, Beatrice said, "'Tis most improper and unladylike behavior, is it not? Not that I have exhibited a wealth of ladylike propriety in your presence. I apologize for my rudeness."

Te'ijal shook her head, smiling despite herself. "You have not seemed that way to me."

"That's good." Beatrice sighed. "The doorman will be angry if I hold you any longer."

"I will not be angry about it," murmured Te'ijal.

They stared at one another for a long moment, each hungry for something, one of them no longer certain of the nature of hunger. Then, Beatrice broke eye contact as she said, "I am grateful for your companionship. 'Tis difficult to relate to any other Western transplant on this continent, with their regressive values and small dreams. I don't care for them much, but I do you. You listen. To me. To what I want to say." She met Te'ijal's eyes again with a look like the thrust of a dagger. "Please do not stay away."

A tiny, twisted upside-down part of Te'ijal, a gut instinct, felt that Beatrice shouldn't be trusted entirely and that she would be better off slashing this line and running from it forever. But she couldn't. She was so enamored, so bewitched, so desperate for Beatrice's acuity and charm… and her body, above anything, whether that meant what pumped beneath her sculpted flesh or what swelled and plunged for the naked eye, the sorcery of her shape. The two desires could, in their truest, rawest states, be one--and Beatrice's plea could at once be false and genuine, her motives both ulterior and exactly as offered.

Te'ijal accepted this as justification for smiling and saying, "I shall not."

Beatrice closed the distance between them with an embrace, different from the polite, if titillating, greeting in the garden, Te'ijal's sinew conforming to Beatrice's curves so that they could meet one another completely. Beatrice's body was so warm, Te'ijal thought it would be a miracle if she didn't notice the undead chill of a vampire's body in her arms. Beatrice's head rested against Te’ijal’s shoulder, and there was her neck, exposed, carotid pounding underneath taut skin.

As casually as she could, Te'ijal pulled away and clasped her hands behind her back. "I must bid you a good night, Lady Beatrice."

"'Til we meet again, my Lady Te'ijal," responded Beatrice, low and suggestive. She stepped out of the doorway and curtsied as Te'ijal passed.

"Pleasant evening, milady," said the doorman, doffing his hat and pretending he hadn't heard a word of their charged conversation.

Te'ijal headed down the road and started through the woods before remembering she hadn't yet eaten that night. With a sigh, she doubled back to the garden, still thoroughly hidden in the trees as she sniffed out her goal. This was a tactic she hated to use, but it was a necessary last resort. Te'ijal stopped ten feet short of Lord Salviati's outhouse.

She leaned against a tree as she waited. It was inevitable, with so much alcohol circulating, that someone would come out of this little shed sooner or later. She just hoped it wasn't someone important.

It was a scullery maid, stinking of cheap wine. Te'ijal made quick work of the girl, taking no pleasure in the meal. It felt unsatisfactory in a way no human blood ever had. She took the girl's shoes and hauled the corpse into the thinning trees closer to the seaside cliffs, mindful not to let it drip on her new dress.

Te'ijal made it less than ten paces towards home before Gyendal dropped onto her from a tree.

_"Excuse me!"_

"You are not excused." Gyendal let her up, crossing his arms. "You even talk like the humans now. What has become of my sister?"

Te'ijal brushed off her dress as she rose. "She is here, and covered in dirt. Did you _follow_ me, Gyendal?"

Gyendal's eyes were glowing a deep, threatening red. "I saw everything, Te'ijal. All night."

It took a second for the impact of this statement to crush Te'ijal's sternum and send a wretched shiver through her body. She swallowed it down as best she could, looking cold. "What of it?" she replied indifferently.

"Why do you not simply _eat her,_ you fool?!" hissed Gyendal. "She is there, begging for you to consume her in any way you wish, and you turn away! What are you thinking?"

"And so what if I have a connection in the Overworld?" shot back Te'ijal, knowing it was a flimsy defense, knowing the Ghed'ahrian elders would never accept it.

"You have _never_ hunted without me!"

Gyendal turned to face the croaking forest beside him, and Te'ijal drooped. She had forgotten. "Have you eaten, brother?"

She could see in his posture, in his face, in the way he gnawed at his cheeks, that he had not.

"We are going home," he snarled, grabbing her hand and tugging her to the south. "We have a pantry."

With her other hand, Te'ijal gripped the servant girl's shoes so hard she nearly ripped into the leather. She had left Gyendal so carelessly… her brother, her twin, with whom she was bonded by the unholiness of the Halloween midnight moon. The right arm which pulled the string taut as she, the left, stretched forth the riser. Because of a human.

A human she didn't even kill.

"She knows what we are," muttered Gyendal, lengthening his pace. "She has to die."

Te'ijal pried her wrist loose from Gyendal's hand. Gyendal was right--Beatrice's wiles spoiled the entire territory for the vampires. She could tell anyone, or at least ward the house. Staying in her good graces was all that they knew kept her in check.

"You _know_ that she must die."

_But…._

"Say it."

Te'ijal slowed, clutching the shoes by her waist in both hands.

"She must die."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BROTHERS am I right


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> August.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This is the porn.)  
> CW for brief mention of suicide, hanging.

It rained in August.

Te'ijal held Gyendal's hand all the way to the threshold where the woods met the open air along the human road. Neither looked, neither offered with a nudge or a word; at once, their hands simply met with purpose and locked together the way they were meant to be, because both needed a reminder.

"You are certain she will see me?" asked Te'ijal, staring out into the grey murk. "Even though there will be no party tonight?"

Gyendal squeezed her hand with each finger one by one. "She will be happy to see you."

Te'ijal smiled, then caught herself, restraining her expression. She squeezed his hand in return and let it go. Unfolding a lacy black parasol she knew wouldn't hold much rain at bay, she left her brother and the treeline behind.

Within seconds, the hem of her dress from Beatrice was soaked through, though her hair was thankfully guarded by the parasol for now. Te'ijal lifted her skirt and jogged down the road, feeling raindrops splatter against her skin and drip down beneath her neckline. Her plan for tonight was simple: drain Beatrice of blood through the throat, then hang her body to look like a suicide, obscuring the fang wound. She felt disappointed when she imagined Beatrice dangling from a rope on a light fixture somewhere; but why should she? Sucking every last living pearl out of that temptress was exactly what Te'ijal wanted, was it not? Why should it be a waste?

No coaches waited outside in the rain, nor the doorman, but when Te'ijal whacked the great knocker against the door, he was inside to open it immediately. "Lady Te'ijal! Lady Beatrice has been expecting you." He bowed as she stepped inside and shut the door behind her quickly.

Te'ijal shook out her parasol, which the doorman took. Her hair was only a bit damp, although her dress hadn't fared as well. "Where is she waiting?" she asked politely.

"There is a private study in the cellar," replied the doorman. He snapped his fingers at a maid exiting the cloakroom. "Lottie, escort Lady Te'ijal to the lower athenaeum."

With a curtsy, Lottie said, "Yes, Master Ronald. Right this way, miss."

Lottie led Te'ijal through a parlor she hadn't seen before, full of beautiful Veldti upholstery and artwork. Down the hall, a single door led them to a staircase blocked at the end by a sheer red curtain with crystal beaded fringe. Lottie bowed her head quickly before hurrying back upstairs and shutting the door.

The first thing Te'ijal noticed as she parted the curtains was that it smelled of very little in here. The scents of food and drink were absent, as were those of candles, incense, and oils; the fabrics around the room must have been washed thoroughly, but she couldn't smell any lye; even the books and crisp, loose papers--of which there were many--were dormant to the nose. Te'ijal took a long, confused sniff to ensure hers was still functional.

The second thing she noticed was Beatrice.

She sat on a dark brown loveseat, her knees bent and her bare feet sprawled beside her. Voluminous hair draped loose over her bare shoulders, shaped only by two thin braids hanging down by her ears. Her dress was of the finest ruby-red silk, a gentle sheen cast on her skirt and long, off-shoulder trumpet sleeves by the dancing lamplight. The bodice was a simple black corset, lined at the top and bottom with red and embellished with red lace; the sleeves were cuffed to her upper arms by thick bands of the same material. The corset was fitted snugly, giving her cleavage more volume than it had any right to have and pushing it up high. The neckline sat so low on Beatrice that Te’ijal could see a deepening pink peek over the red boning, teasing at the luscious, naked body concealed just out of sight. It was a wonder her nipples were secure in that corset at all, Te’ijal thought hazily, but it must have been just that tight. It looked that tight.

And in this room, empty of fragrance, her scent was overpowering.

Beatrice breathed deeply, and Te’ijal was transfixed on her. She shut the unmarked, leather-bound book in her hands, and sat up a little. “Te’ijal,” she said with a half-smile. “You came.”

The lamplight caught a shadow in Beatrice’s eye, sharpening her cheekbone like a dirk, and Te’ijal forgot how to speak.

“Please sit.” Beatrice gestured at a chair across from her, and Te’ijal followed her instruction, not daring to change her situation, fixated on what she saw before her. She felt as if she could feel Beatrice, round and peaked, in the air around her; she thought she could smell Beatrice’s breath and her pulse and the ebb and flow of her mortality.

She blinked, trying to bring herself back. “What book do you have?” she asked.

“Astute!” Beatrice set the tome on the end table beside her. “Just a bit of my research. All that survives, regrettably.”

“Your research?”

“I did tell you ‘tis how I practice, did I not?” Beatrice rested her chin on her hand, her elbow on the arm of the loveseat. “For years, I have compiled all knowledge I could find on the arcane. The immortal. The powerful. ‘Tis why I am here, darling--I discovered the location of the entrance to Halloween Hills, and finally, I could leave Sedona.”

“What happened to the rest of your research?” cautioned Te’ijal.

“Goddess willing, my cousin burned everything I left behind.”

Te’ijal leaned forward and clasped her hands together. “Does Lord Salviati also know of the Halloween Hills entrance?”

Beatrice laughed. “I asked. He does not believe in vampires, somehow.”

“That is unwise of him.”

“I know why you came, Te’ijal.” Instead of fading, Beatrice’s smile deepened. “You know that I know.”

Te’ijal sat back up, her gut burning. She swallowed it down. _No, this is fine; I can still kill her, even if she knows--_

“You wish to kill me. I’ll tell you now, that’s fine. But let’s spend one more evening with one another first.” Beatrice simpered. “I have something to propose.”

“What is that?” asked Te’ijal slowly.

Beatrice moved her hand and leaned forward, and Te’ijal’s lips twitched. “Well,” said Beatrice, “as I believe I’ve told you, I’ve studied vampires more extensively than any other being. You fascinate me.”

“I have noticed that as well,” muttered Te’ijal, fighting her arousal.

With a chuckle, Beatrice leisurely anchored her stray hair behind her ear, and the fight was futile. “And the feeling is mutual, I think; in more ways than one.”

Te’ijal bunched and unbunched her dress where her hand rested above her knee.

“I want a few things from you, Te’ijal,” said Beatrice, a note of longing in her voice that Te’ijal knew she couldn’t trust but couldn’t help but _need_ to hear in perpetuity, “but I’ll only ask for one. Cosimo is leaving in September… next month. Even if you let me live, I wouldn’t be coming back.”

Before she knew it, Te’ijal was on her feet. Beatrice was not surprised, but Te’ijal was as she crouched beside the loveseat, inches from the woman she wanted, who allegedly wanted her too, who she _shouldn’t have._ “Beatrice--”

Suddenly, there was a finger at her mouth, hushing her. Beatrice’s pulse beat softly against Te’ijal’s lips; Te’ijal closed her eyes and let the sensation take her over.

“You have nothing to say,” murmured Beatrice, and she was right.

She left the finger where it was. Te’ijal opened her eyes; Beatrice’s face was not at eye level, and she let her gaze rest in place. When Beatrice breathed, leaning forward so far, she created a branching canyon in her flesh, a narrow but deepening crevasse leading down to the lush lowlands beneath her corset.

“What I want,” continued Beatrice, “is to stay. Here--or, shall we say, in Halloween Hills. And to be immortal.”

Te’ijal hummed against Beatrice’s finger. “You used me.”

“No, pet.” The finger left, but not before inserting its tip between Te’ijal’s lips, far enough to catch the end of a flickering tongue but not enough to meet her pike-sharp teeth. Te’ijal whimpered quietly; Beatrice ignored her and continued. “I want you, too. And everything I told you last new moon was true. But we cannot have one another if I am human.”

Standing on her knees and leaning her hands on the couch, Te’ijal finally looked Beatrice in the eye. “How can you know what I want?”

Beatrice’s smile grew sympathetic. She turned until she sat almost upright, rippling the thin fabric around her thighs, and gestured in front of her. “Come here, Te’ijal,” she said quietly.

Hypnotized, Te’ijal sat on the sofa beside Beatrice, her legs underneath her. Beatrice shook her head and drew her arm up her thigh, exposing some of her leg, before raising it to beckon Te’ijal closer. Te’ijal crawled across the loveseat on hand and knee; Beatrice kept beckoning, and she found herself straddling the woman’s waist, her pelvis hotter than coals, a swath of fabric beneath her soaking slowly through.

“This is what you want, is it not?” Beatrice asked in a whisper.

“Yes,” Te’ijal breathed back. Overcome by need, she bit her lips together, leaning forward and shaking lightly.

“We can have this,” Beatrice murmured in Te’ijal’s ear, catching Te’ijal’s cheek with her hand and stroking it. “We can make love in the chapel for a week, until someone throws a ball, and then we can hide beneath the organ and make it some more. We can fuck in the blood of a half-dozen noblefolk, full and lusty ‘til the sun is nearly risen. We can fuck them and eat them and fuck each other.”

Lips swollen, tits swollen, and something else she hadn’t made use of in nearly a century swollen as well, Te’ijal stared Beatrice down for another moment before plunging forward to kiss her hard.

Beatrice’s hand traveled down from Te’ijal’s cheek to her chest, groping Te’ijal’s breast. Te’ijal immediately whined into Beatrice’s mouth when her fingers met skin, and Beatrice chuckled, biting Te’ijal’s lip.

“Good to see a vampire’s heightened senses for myself.”

She sought out a nipple through the fabric of Te’ijal’s dress, and Te’ijal gasped into her mouth, rocking against the mess of fabric over Beatrice’s hips. Beatrice ran the hand up Te’ijal’s leg until she found the dampness waiting there and grinned.

“No underwear in vampire society, then?” Te’ijal just gave her a pained look, and she laughed and withdrew her hand. “Good.”

“Why--”

“Can’t get this over with too quickly, can we?”

Beatrice smirked, and Te’ijal sighed pathetically. “You should have simply driven a stake through me,” she grumbled.

“Well, now. Which one of us will really be dying tonight?”

“You.”

“Our first lay in your coffin, I’ll show you what magic we work in the covens of Sedona,” Beatrice whispered, kissing Te’ijal’s forehead. “But tonight is my turn. When you sink your fangs into me and bring me so close to Death I can smell the sweat on his bollocks, don’t you let me go til I’ve cum like it’s the last thing I’ll ever do.”

“Beatrice.”

“Yes, love?”

“Why do you trust me to complete the turning?”

Beatrice just smiled and kissed Te’ijal once, then more, in time to her own heartbeat, pushing her mouth open wide and teasing her tongue slowly around Te’ijal’s fangs while Te’ijal pressed hers against it. When she released, she pulled her torso back, covering the surface of her bolstered breasts with her hands.

“I know you’re fascinated by my tits. Can you turn me if you bite me there?”

Te’ijal had never entered any sort of blood frenzy, but she might’ve at that moment, between her arousal, her desire for Beatrice’s blood, and the strange, blended middle ground she’d discovered within herself, stronger than either alone. She licked her lips. “Yes.”

Slowly, Beatrice traced her fingers down the boning in her corset. “Then we’ll just have to take this off.”

Te’ijal didn’t need to be told twice. She leaned into Beatrice, who held back dark hair with both hands and came forward to meet her. Staring down at the woman she was about to kill, Te’ijal smiled, and in one motion closed the distance to kiss Beatrice while snaking her arms around Beatrice’s ribcage to loosen the corset. It untied easily, and Te’ijal wound her fingers through the ribbon like a weaver, tugging between each set of grommets without wavering in her kiss. The ribbon came loose, and Te’ijal pulled away. The corset still firmly held its shape as if molded to Beatrice’s body, but she took hold of the sides and, ever so gradually, slid the corset down. Beatrice’s nipples, hard and stiff, sprang out from the corset as if loaded with coils, pointing at Te’ijal. Her bare breasts were just as perfect, as round, as generous as Beatrice had made them look in her clothes. Beatrice discarded the corset onto the floor and removed her sleeve cuffs as well, letting Te’ijal, enraptured, watch the motions of her tits bobbing and jiggling.

Only the slit silk skirt remained. Te’ijal ran a hand up to see how far the slit went, and realized, much like Beatrice had earlier, that there were no underclothes underneath. She rubbed her hand along Beatrice’s plump, soaking-wet thigh and closed her eyes and her jaw. _Next time._

“Mmm.” Beatrice’s eyes shut as well as she reclined against the pillow and swirled a finger around a nipple. “Before you get carried away….”

“I am not the one getting carried away,” Te’ijal breathed into Beatrice’s ear, though it was a bluff.

But Beatrice was right; they couldn’t entertain themselves just yet. Te’ijal brought her own wrist to her mouth and, without thinking twice, sliced it open on her incisors. Beatrice maintained their eye contact as she took the bloody wrist to her mouth and began to suck from it. The vampire blood, it seemed, aroused her more than anything else; she alternated moaning and gasping as she sipped, never letting her lips leave the vein, and Te’ijal could smell the juices spilling from her onto the couch. Te’ijal palmed a bare breast with her free hand, eliciting a higher-pitched moan, feeling the sensation as if in her own chest as she flicked her thumb over Beatrice’s nipple.

The wound closed up as Beatrice drank from it. Te’ijal felt no different, but the experience would invigorate Beatrice. Killing her would be no small feat. Beatrice drew her face away, wiping blood from her lips and licking her teeth, with a roseate smile.

“Oh, _gods,_ Te’ijal; fuck me _right_ now!”

Overwhelmed by her smell and her beauty and the sound of her whimpering breath, Te’ijal rushed forward without a word and kissed Beatrice as hard as she could, surprised for a second when Beatrice could kiss back just as hard.

Te’ijal’s hand found its way behind Beatrice’s head, grasping her hair, tugging it back as they kissed. She nibbled at Beatrice’s tongue, drawing blood once or twice but never drinking, restraining herself in the midst of her whirlwind. Her hungry lips strayed down Beatrice’s chin, then under; then down her neck, where they found her jugular, licking it, pressing against it to feel the rabbitlike heartbeat nestled in the center. Te’ijal kissed a path to Beatrice’s carotid, tracing it back up to her ear and reveling in the _“oh”_ she heard when she switched, for a second, from rough to very, very tender just below the lobe--and then she was off again, down to the collarbone in three long, large imprints. She lingered there for just as long as she could stand before the pressure in her core became unbearable.

Though it had been a while since she’d bedded anyone at all, she remembered perfectly well how to slip her hand through the slit in Beatrice’s skirt, how to drag it maddeningly up Beatrice’s supple thigh, and how to tease around the approach a moment short of too long, feeling Beatrice push against her upper palm as just one finger danced in circles around her clitoris. As Beatrice’s breathy moans sharpened, substantialized, Te’ijal painted from the collarbone up Beatrice’s chin in one stroke of her tongue before kissing her messily. Beatrice clawed at Te’ijal’s neckline, squeezing and kneading at her tits and whining unintelligible things about wanting to touch them properly, but Te’ijal swallowed her groan and ignored the pleas. She kissed back down the hollow of Beatrice’s throat, closing in on her clit with slow, firm churns, reveling in the accelerating moans and the heaving bosom at chin-level. Before Beatrice could even think about getting too close to climax, Te’ijal flipped her hand, hovering over the hood with her thumb, and thrust two fingers inside.

With a low wail, Beatrice pressed Te’ijal’s head into her chest. Whether that was a reflex or an instruction, Te’ijal neither knew nor cared. She grabbed Beatrice’s tits from underneath with her free hand, pressing them together, inwards, upwards, watching them jiggle a bit as she fucked Beatrice with her other hand, and--bewitched--opened her mouth wide enough to release her fangs. Beatrice held her breath when she felt them against her skin, her heart hammering. Te’ijal moaned when she felt plump flesh, and she bit.

A frenzy of lust, blood or otherwise, nearly overtook her as she sucked in time to the sucking she felt against her fingers. Beatrice’s blood was like any other human blood, but it tasted _divine_ to her, incomparable in quality. Te’ijal wanted it so badly, was attracted to it as much as she was attracted to its host, who had closed her eyes as her body was worshipped like the voluntary sacrifices of ancient Eredar. With a muffled whine, Te’ijal granted Beatrice a third finger, allowing her thumb a closer angle on Beatrice’s clitoris, and then ground against her own hand.

Beatrice gasped, her hips jerking up into Te’ijal’s, only Te’ijal’s hand separating them. “Not _yet,”_ she commanded, though her voice was nearly lost as she panted, weakened by blood loss. Te’ijal relaxed her thrusting but kept rolling her pelvis against Beatrice, blissful in the throes of getting everything she’d wanted. She sucked harder, blood dribbling from her lips to Beatrice’s breast, peaking on Beatrice’s ice-hard nipple before dripping off. The pulse around Te’ijal’s fingers slowed, though the moaning, low and fiendishly sexy in its fatigue, persisted. The warmth in the underside of Beatrice’s cleavage began to fade.

 _“Soon?”_ she wanted to ask as her own clit throbbed.

“Soon,” whispered Beatrice, her eyelids flickering. “Gods, _yes.”_

Te’ijal’s own eyelids flickered, eyes rolling back, and she drew as much blood as she could from the vein between her teeth, not caring if she fucked it all up and Beatrice died without cumming. But Beatrice whined, and her hands hit the sofa arm behind her, her ragged breathing accelerating.

“Yes--yes-- _yes--Te’ijal, now--fuck me--kill me--I wan--ohh--”_

Te’ijal curled a finger to rub inside and let the rest thrust as quickly as they could, and Beatrice began thrusting back, working her hips like a dancer. Focused, Te’ijal drank, her vision growing staticky and her chest hot. Beatrice cried out with the rest of her strength. Te’ijal felt her cum, and she rutted and sucked and didn’t see Beatrice’s blissful face hang limp to one side as her own body shook, racked with waves of euphoria, and the static turned to red, and she lost consciousness.


End file.
